Who I Am Now
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Good looking, charming, suave, and filthy rich, Alfred has everything going for him. That is, except for his mental health.


Alfred drummed his fingers along the side of the window. The world whipped past in a hazy green blur, deep purple leaking from the sky and consuming sunlight. He had been on the bus for nearly an hour and was steadily growing impatient. He removed his hand from the window and ran it through his hair. He had no mirror to use to examine his profile. He turned back towards the window and squinted, trying to scour his reflection somewhere.

There, he found it. He caught his clear blue eyes gazing at him in the mirror. He nearly swooned with delight at his masculine, hardened features. His thick blond hair, in complicated waves and with one dainty point sticking out towards the front, was in immaculate condition. His teeth were shining, even, perfect. The skin on his face was stretched to near godlike beauty, a very faint tan tinting the solid flesh. Now, if only he could part with his wire-framed glasses. They were certainly a fault of his. He liked them, he thought it gave his wicked eyes a gleam of intelligence and, if he tilted his head correctly, he could achieve a menacing sheen.

Nonetheless his favorite men's fashion magazine had treated glasses as a blaspheming, disgusting scum-of-the-earth accessory. It didn't tell him to simply purchase contacts, no, it told him to step on them, to crush them, to swallow them whole and then take a shot of some hard liquor to wash down the taste. Yes, certainly, oh, heavenly bliss would be achieved. Success and beauty do go hand in hand, Alfred thought.

He grinned to himself for quite some time, watching the bus pull to a brief stop to pick up several passengers. A group huddled in from the cold breeze. Although it was still autumn, the weather had taken a turn for the worst. A light film of frost had begun to frame the window.

"Excuse me, may I sit here sir?" A woman's voice asked.

Alfred's grin twitched. He turned, ready to charmingly deny her, but stopped short when he took a good look at her. Oh, yes, she would improve his image greatly. Her simple presence, robust bosom and mass of curled blonde hair would compliment his to a point. He nodded and spread his hand open, palm-up.

"Of course, miss, how could I deny a beautiful lady such as yourself?"

Her blossom-pink lips curled into a smile of delight. The rouged tips pointed towards her blossoming rosy blush. She sat down daintily, pressing her knees together and lightly placing her manicured fingertips on her black tights. Over those she wore a thick golden coat and a white dress. The belt was gold as well.

"What brings you here?" Alfred asked, still pouring enchantment into his tone.

He tried not to howl with mirth as oncoming passengers shot him admiring looks. An elderly woman appeared especially pleased and enamored with him. She walked on. The woman sitting with Alfred hardly batted an eye.

"Oh, I'm visiting my aunt. She lives out in the country."

"Well, Miss Country Aunt, I'm Alfred F. Jones. Call me Al or Alfred if you'd like."

He held his hand out to her. She shook it firmly, the skin of her hands softened by lotion. She looked anywhere but at him, adjusting a few loose curls and digging through her hefty red purse for something to read. She leafed through a bundle of magazines and two small but thick books.

"Nice to meet you, Alfred." She said. "I'm Emily Warner."

"Miss Warner, what a charming name."

"Yes, indeed, I suppose it is." She nodded.

Alfred leaned back in his chair. The novelty had begun to wear off. Now he could rest. He let her flip through her book, titled _When I Was the Tower_. She read eagerly, her eyes pinned to the front and with the perfectly curved tip of her fingernail tracing each word she read. She licked her lips as the plot thickened. He didn't really know. He didn't like to read over a person's shoulder. He knew it made him horribly angry.  
>Yes, so horribly angry…<p>

"Sociopathy." The woman stated.

Alfred turned to her, an eyebrow raised.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're a sociopath," she explained. She pointed at him, not turning away from her book. "I see it. I see how you act, how you frowned but thought I was apparently pretty enough to sit with you. You've adjusted your hair thirteen times since I sat down. This whole trip you must have, oh let's multiply three minutes… thirteen… sixty… You did it about two hundred sixty times, assuming you didn't stop."

Her eyes flickered towards him.

"And what does that mean?" Alfred asked. "Are you making the assumption that I'm crazy? I know what you mean by psychopath."

"I never once said 'psychopath'. I simply said that you are obsessive compulsive and that you most likely have an inability to hold on to yourself when you… You know… _get a little out of control._"

"Miss Warner, are you implying I murder people?" He asked, baffled into bemusement.

"I am implying that you could." She responded.

Shutting her book and slipping it back into her purse, she pulled her back upright and glared directly at Alfred.

"Do you?"

"Why would I admit that to you? You didn't even tell me your real name."

"Of course I didn't."

Alfred laughed. "Well, can't say you've changed much, Emily Jones."

She shrugged. "No point in doing that. How many people have you killed?"

"This week? Three. I'm planning a fourth when I reached the city."

"Sounds risky."

"It is."

"Who is the fourth?"

Alfred smiled. He didn't say. Emily's heart sank. She knew already who it was.

At least her last few days were fun.


End file.
